fury
by finaljoy
Summary: Jonathon had a snake wrapped around his wrist, and, fool that he was, he couldn't let her go even after she bit him. (canon divergent au, companion to 'fearsome')
1. chapter one

_AN this is what i meant when i said there was more than i expected to grace and jonathon's story _¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

Grace Emberly was cunning, clever, beautiful, and ruthless. Jonathon could see it in her eyes, had seen it from the first. He knew that many had fallen to the mill of her ambition, and many more were likely to follow. But he, well, Jonathon was willing to do anything to ensure his own survival, and they both knew it.

The only problem was, he was tired of just _surviving._ Grace had offered him the taste, the _shadow_ of a taste, of thriving, and now he couldn't get it out of his head. Freedom, power, control, he liked the taste of them almost as much as he liked the taste of Grace.

"I need _time,_ Jonathon," she said, hands up, pouring out just one more in a stream of excuses. She was like a child who had wandered too deep into the water and was splashing about in search of the ground.

"Just give _into_ it, Grace," he told her, heart beating faster, hands and mouth thrilling at the very touch of her. He was barely even certain of what he was saying any more, the words spilling unchecked from his lips, muffled and hurried as he kissed her neck. There was the barest trace of flowers on her skin, hinting at some fine soap she had indulged in despite her hard attitude.

Grace pressed her hands against his face, pushing him back just enough to look at her.

"You said you didn't want to take my independence," she said, the words fast to cut off the anger and frustration that ripped up his stomach. "Don't make me do this. Let me choose. Give me a day and I'll—I'll come back."

It was hard for her to get out, her eyes flickering like she had to fight to make the sounds form. He couldn't help but follow the cords in her neck as she swallowed. He wanted to put his tongue against them, search around until he found her pulse.

"I'm tired of your games, Grace," he said. His voice was thicker than he would have liked, could she tell how much he _ached_ to have her? Hopefully not, that was a weakness she would only dig her nails into.

She was still looking into his eyes, though, earnest and unblinking. Her hands were still on his face, her words soft and careful.

"_One day,_ Jonathon. When have I ever broken my word? Please, Jonathon. Just…let me have this night, and then you can have the next."

He studied her, taking in the panic, the worry, the desperation. Grace told entire stories with the single pull of her eyebrows. Her mouth lied with the ease of drawing breath, but her face was always reliably honest. And just now it was telling him that she meant enough of what she said that he might actually be able to believe her.

"And what if you run away or concoct some clever scheme in the meantime?" he asked.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she said recklessly, almost rolling her eyes. "Burn down the Ale, cut out my tongue for a liar. You could personally stand outside—_outside_, mind—my room the entire day, if it makes you feel better. But I promise you, I _am_ coming back. Partnerships are built on give and take, after all."

Her words stroked against all the support and cooperation he craved. He wanted her so badly he could barely see, but he wanted her to want him back even more. Jonathon could wear down her walls until she finally admitted the truth staring them in the face, but if they could just skip all that, if she would come willingly…

"One day," he said, stepping back. He had to be careful, this was his game, he could not let her tell there was an actual pain in his throat at the delay. He glanced back at her, lifting his chin to show that he was done with their dance of inconveniences. "Don't test me, Grace. You're not getting that letter if you do."

"Never," she breathed. He looked forward to the day when he could actually trust her.

Grace put her hand on his chest again, the briefest touch. He swallowed as she looked into his face.

"Thank you, Jonathon," she said, then left him alone in the room.

He blinked a few times, listening to her leave, but he didn't know how to make himself turn around. He ran a hand over his mouth. The memory of her still lingered on his lips.

* * *

Jonathon did his best not to run out of his skin the next day. He woke up expecting her, he ate waiting for her, he did his rounds and checked the troops and gave orders all while needing her to appear at his side. And that was just the part of him that anticipated her coming that night, of Grace letting him place his hands on her waist and his mouth on hers and then her hands would be in his hair and her lips on his skin—

But then there was the part of him that feared this was all a trick, that she would run or hide or sink a dagger in his ribs once she had his trousers on the floor. Jonathon would follow through on the consequences if she broke her promise, but the thought left a sour taste on the back of his throat. He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to come up with a plan that didn't need a thousand contingencies. She was driving him up a fucking wall.

Jonathon didn't actually know if he was angry or relieved when Grace was finally led into the parlor by the maid. _You can't do that,_ he wanted to snarl at her, _you can't just walk in here like it's your damn house. Not when you've made me drag you to the door._

"I almost didn't think you would come," he said coolly. He looked up at her from his chair. She was imperious in her tidy fur coat, every bit the queen he had framed her.

"Business at the Ale, as usual," she told him. Grace was trying to act calm, bored, even, but her words were a little too clipped. "But I'm here now. Besides, I'd rather go to you than have you come to me."

She _was_ nervous. She stared at him in defiance, daring him to bite back. Her mouth was enticingly pink in the candlelight. Pink and pursed in anxiety.

Fear was well and good for getting people to do what he wanted, but he didn't want it tainting his marriage bed.

"You were insistent I come," Grace told him impatiently. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Not likely," he said, standing up. Her eyes flicked over him in appraisal. Jonathon suddenly wondered what she saw when she looked at him, if she could see the truth hiding against his wrists or the cut of his vest or around the edges of his boots. He could see it in her, clear enough. She was nervous and angry that she was nervous and deeply resentful that he had outplayed her.

The thought had been more satisfying, once.

"You needn't look so worried, Grace."

"'Worry' isn't what I'd call it."

"Then what?"

Jonathon thought she might actually answer for a moment, eyes darting to the side as she worked her jaw. Then she looked back at him, mouth hardening.

"Let's just go," she snapped, roughly taking off her coat. She tossed it over a chair, then stared at him expectantly. He bit back a smile and headed to the stairs.

Jonathon couldn't help but feel self-conscious when he showed her into the bedroom. It was crisp and empty of most all personal effects, the way it had probably been for every governor before him. It had outlasted all the rest, watching dispassionately as one man stepped on the throat of another.

He focused on the wine waiting for them on the desk. Safer thoughts, he needed safer thoughts, planned out thoughts, not insecure thoughts.

"Would you like a glass?" he asked.

"Don't tell me it's a wedding present," Grace said, rolling her eyes.

"Just…something to make you more at ease," he said. Grace looked back at him, then blinked like she hadn't quite seen him before. She nodded and glanced away.

Grace sipped at her wine, surveying the room. Jonathon took a careful step closer. He could have kissed her hair, if he wanted. He barely brushed a hand against her arm, making her turn.

Grace's mouth was soft when he kissed her. She didn't kiss back, but she didn't fight him and that was something, so he kissed her deeper. But then she was jerking away, huffing out a breath. A hand jumped to her mouth like his touch made her sick.

"Don't tell me this is going to become a habit," he said, embarrassment sparking into something akin to anger. "Grace, I—"

"Just—shut up," she hissed, hand snapping up to stop him. "Just—I'll be fine, just let me breathe for one fucking minute."

"And how am I—"

"_Jonathon,_" she said, and he couldn't speak over his shock at how _broken_ her voice was. Her shoulders were taut, though whether they were pulled up to attack or defend, he couldn't quite tell. She looked at him and he was suddenly confronted by the naked fear on her face. It wasn't the squalling fear of a person facing violence, but the quiet, shaking fear of a person with something to lose.

"I just…I'm afraid. This frightens me and I hate that it does but I can't stop it, so just…let me be afraid."

Did she think he was going to hurt her? Anger at himself flashed up from his toes—of course she did, he had lost his temper and said things he regretted, but she _had_ to know that it meant nothing. She was too important to lay a finger on, to actually harm in any real way.

"Grace, I never meant—this isn't mean tot be a _punishment,_" he stammered. He shouldn't have been so blunt, so coarse, she understood him but clearly some things had been lost in the sending. "No harm will come to you."

To his relief, she actually laughed. "It's not _that,_" she said, shaking her head. Her smile turned sour as she continued. "I told you. I'm afraid that being _Mrs. Chesterfield_ will leave me lame. No power, no freedom, just…bed warming."

"You have to know I'd never want that," he said shaking his head. She looked at him uncertainly, like she wanted him to continue against her better judgement. "I don't want a woman that sits quietly by. I value you _because_ you're brave and clever. I'd never try to strip you of that."

He wanted a partner, equal in all things, sharing his table and his triumphs and his bed. Jonathon would give Grace _anything,_ she just had to agree. She just had to ask.

"This is about making us _stronger,_ not cutting you down," he continued, touching her elbow. "If we hold nothing in reserve from one another, think of all that could be made."

Grace let out a slow breath, thinking over his words. She shook her head and turned away. He opened his mouth to say something, to lay out another argument to convince her before she changed her mind. Then he noticed that she was undoing her clothes, throwing herself off this cliff before she could over think herself into a mistake.

She looked back at him and Jonathon swallowed hard. That was the look that could undo any man, nervous and yet willing, innocent and yet ready for the filthiest things.

Grace stepped closer, hesitated, and then kissed him. It was just the barest touch, a test to see if she had done it right. He let out a slow breath that hitched part way through. He wanted to grab her and hoist her up onto the desk, hands up her shirt as her legs wrapped around his middle, but he didn't want to risk making her balk.

Grace kissed him again, this time hard enough to break his resolve. He pulled her closer, hands pressing into her back like he might lose her if let any space between them. His whole body thrummed with the thrill of it, her hands caught on his chest, one reaching up to hold his neck. He could feel every part of her that was against him, her breasts and stomach and thighs, so close and yet not close enough.

She let him open her mouth, slide his tongue against hers. He could taste the wine she had drunk, turned all the sweeter by her lips. Grace pulled back the slightest bit in surprise, but then seemed to reconsider before leaning into the kiss again. He moved on to her neck, each open-mouthed kiss making her breath catch.

She gasped a little when he pulled her blouse free and pressed his hands against the skin of her sides. It was a tiny, girlish thing, and yet it nearly sucked the air out of his lungs. He moved farther up, following her spine with his fingertips. The tension bled out of Grace, her body leaning against him, promising he could do anything.

Jonathon walked them back to the bed, turning her so she sat down. He tried to kiss her as he pulled off her boots, but she was also struggling with his vest and his shirt. Grace froze for a half a moment, and Jonathon looked up in surprise. She was staring at him, eyes trailing over every inch of his exposed skin. He wished he could keep that moment of absolute stillness when she looked at his body and he could see that she _wanted_ it.

Jonathon tossed her boots away and pushed her flat on the bed. He ran his hand from her collarbone to her hip, tracing his thumb along the edge of her breeches. He pulled them off, making Grace tense at the cold air. Jonathon smothered a smile as he leaned down, his mouth caressing her hipbone. She let him take off her shirt, and then the stupor fell away and Grace became the fearsome creature he had always known her to be. She toed off his boots and her legs were around his waist and she was kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

He was dizzy from her touch, drunk from the wine on her lips and each moan she let loose. It was better than he had ever hoped for, because it was real, she had chosen him, she wanted him, she was his, his, his.

_Stay with me, Grace._

He hadn't meant to say it, but once it was out, he couldn't stop. The words were a mumbled blur between them, teased out by the flush on her skin and her hands holding him closer and the dreadful certainty that he might just die if this was all a trick. But that was the danger of having precious things. Losing them, even for a moment, would cut a hole in Jonathon's chest that he doubted he could ever fill again.

And, of course, as though Grace could hear his thoughts, she pulled away. She slipped his arm from around her waist and eased away, because they had had sex and she had fulfilled her part of the bargain and it was all just a trade in her eyes, anyway. Jonathon felt the knife tip of loss cut into him, sliding in ever so neatly above his heart.

He sat up and pulled her back, kissed her spine and asked her to stay. Grace hesitated, placing a hand on his hair. He couldn't help but lean into her touch, _fuck_, he was so pathetic, so needy, but he couldn't help it, his head was muddled and he was afraid to let her go.

"I—I have to go," she said, voice thick as she kept grabbing for her clothes.

Jonathon turned her around and kissed her hard, the last plea she would ever steal from his lips. Grace kissed back for half a second, but then she eased away, barely dressed, holding onto her boots like they might offer her protection.

Jonathon blinked when he saw the naked fear in her face. It wasn't the fear of earlier, of losing something or becoming less, but rather the fear of wanting more. And she saw that he saw, and that made her flee from the room entirely.

Jonathon sat back on the bed. She had left a stocking behind, pale and confusingly feminine in his room. He picked it up and looked back at the closed door. He almost laughed. As confusing as this all was, he was certain he had won ground in this war with his new wife.

Jonathon went ahead and ordered the reward posters taken down the next day. He was a man of principle, after all. And he didn't really need them anymore.

* * *

Whatever confidence, whatever _complacency _Jonathon had burned away by the next week. Grace had stayed well away from him and the governor's house, minding her business and her girls and letting everyone in the damn fort see her except for him. He was such a fool. His father had said it from the first—Jonathon was a man bred in a butcher's shop and yet he still allowed himself to feel. If that wasn't a moral failing, he didn't know what was.

Grace probably knew that. All of the people important to Jonathon had the uncanny knack of seeing straight through him.

Finally, Jonathon gave up waiting for her to come to him and went to the Ale.

"Jonathon," Grace said, eyes wide like she had forgotten he existed.

"Back," he growled at her, already stalking past the bar. He waited for half a moment, glaring at her shape through the partial wall of ale barrels. Grace stepped into the back room and primly pulled the curtain closed.

"Well?" she asked. "What're you here for?"

He hated how the sound of her voice eased over his skin. He wanted her like he wanted every other advantage he laid his eyes on, but he wished to hell that she didn't make him weaker in the process. If he just had her more, if he didn't constantly fear that one day she would be gone, then maybe he would be fine.

If he believed that, he would be even stupider than he already was. But he'd certainly sleep better.

"You've been awfully absent from the governor's house over the last week, Grace."

Her look of quiet incredulity made his stomach twist. She didn't even have to speak to make him sound pathetic. "You're here because you're lonely?"  
"I'm _here_ because you haven't been honoring your commitments as my wife. Did I somehow leave you unsatisfied?"

That upset her. She cursed and glanced at the people half-seen in the main room, then steered Jonathon away from the door. He would have smiled at the petty triumph if he weren't so irritated.

"Keep your voice down, people can hear you."

"I wouldn't have to speak in the open if you came to the privacy of our home," he told her. It was almost funny to see how very much she cared about her reputation. Jonathon had all the reputation he needed, even had some extra for her.

"I have my own obligations," she told him, expression becoming less tolerant by the second. "I will not set them aside so you can feel _waited on._"

"This isn't—" Jonathon rolled his eyes and took hold of her shoulders. She lifted her chin, mouth pressing into an angry line. He paused, then relaxed his grip.

"This isn't about _me,_ Grace. It's about _us._"

Why did she never believe him when he said that? He had only ever told her the truth, and this fact was a true as it could ever get. They would topple the New World, if only she stopped _fighting_ him.

He leaned closer, made his voice softer. "Tell me you didn't enjoy our time together, that you wouldn't like it again. This is only the beginning, as I've always said. With you at the governor's house, just imagine the things we could achieve, the plans—"

"Move into the governor's house? I would have thought the week of my _not_ being there would have made it clear enough."

She pulled away, breaking the spell.

"I told you, I'm not your pet. Whatever fantasy you've concocted can go straight in the latrine without my say so."

He tried to not scowl at her. She was acting awfully high and mighty for a woman that had let him inside her again and again.

"I have tried to be reasonable—"

"Reasonable! By threatening and forcing me to do what you want at each turn? That's not what I'd call _reasonable._ You kept your part of our deal, and for that I'm thankful, for the sake of all Fort James. But do _not_ think I'm indebted to you for it."

He grabbed her by the shoulders again, jerking her back onto the table. Why did it _always_ come back to a fight with her? Why did she always have to make him feel an idiot for listening to what she said? _She _had been the one to suggest the partnership, to agree to the marriage, to encourage him to start acting for himself. Why was every path she laid down always changing?

Grace clenched her teeth, daring him to do more. Her mouth was painfully pink against her pale skin. The thought made him angry because he wasn't there to kiss her but he also wasn't allowed to kiss her and when his temper went all caution followed after.

"If you're so bent on putting your business duties first," he told her, "then I will remove it from your care. As governor and your husband, I claim ownership of the Alehouse. If it continues to distract you, I'll let whatever groveling pissant I choose be responsible for its services."

"The Ale is the property of my father," she snarled at him. "I run it in his stead. You cannot—"

"Can't I, Grace?" He was so _tired_ of her telling him what he could and couldn't do. He was the governor, now, he could do any damn thing he wanted. "Either you start respecting your responsibilities or I burn this place to the ground with all the legal might I have."

Grace looked away, then looked back and nodded. Her mouth was still pursed in anger. They looked hard now, but he knew how soft her lips could be. He also knew they hid the sharpest of fangs.

"I long for the day," he murmured, "when we no longer to go war like this."

Jonathon stepped back. She didn't make any attempt to respond, so he walked to the door. He hesitated, then glanced back at her.

"Don't stay away long, Grace. I mean it."

He left the Ale, buzzing with the hope that she might actually listen and the discontent that she hadn't decided to cooperate on her own.

* * *

Jonathon had told Grace not to stay away, but he hadn't actually expected her to come the next night. He looked up in surprise when she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom, casual like she had always walked these halls.

"Why are you here?" he asked. He couldn't help the flicker of suspicion rising in his stomach. Grace didn't go anywhere without fifteen plans in place.

"I supposed…you could saw I saw reason." Grace looked down and huffed out a breath, like admitting that she was wrong was a physical hurt. "I don't want to be at war with you, either."

"Then you see what changes have to be made," he said, pressing the advantage. He stood, putting them on eyelevel. "Focus more on _us,_ on the furs we still have to sell. Our plans needn't be crouched in the dark any longer."

"I just have to move in?" she asked.

He considered her. "It would be easier, yes. And…more comfortable."

"Comfortable," she repeated. Her mouth twisted ever so slightly. "I was plenty comfortable at the Ale."

"More pleasurable, then," he said, biting back a smile. "Don't tell me sharing a bed was so terrible."

"We were barely on the bed, from what I remember."

That wasn't a denial.

"And whose fault is that?" he asked.

She looked down, pride bending a little more. Jonathon left the first thrills of triumph go through him.

"It wasn't…unpleasurable," she admitted.

"If you were around more often, we'd be able to repeat it." They were so close, now, close enough that she could kiss him if she just looked up. And then she did, her mouth just barely not touching his.

"Sit down," she told him.

He took her with him, already kissing her. Grace was only too willing to sit in his lap, hands trailing through his hair. If she had been filled with a lovely uncertainty before, she was nothing but eager burning, now. She rolled her hips into his, tempting minx, letting out a tiny sound that he could drink up all day.

Jonathon clenched her shirt in his hands, trying to make this last, trying not to hurry her. She kissed down his throat, tongue just barely tracing his Adam's apple.

"It could always be like this, Grace," he told her, adjusting her so that their bodies fit just so. "Just think how _good_ we could be."

She shushed him, still kissing his neck, still rocking her hips in a way that would completely undo him if she didn't stop. His cock was already aching for her, there was no way she couldn't feel it.

He ran his hands over her thighs, toying with the idea of taking off her breeches and letting her mount him right there. Grace's hands were still in his hair and her teeth skated across his throat, leaving burning marks on his skin.

Grace yanked his head back, banging it against the back of the chair.

"Don't you _ever_ threaten me or my business again," she snarled. "I may be your wife, but I am first and foremost your partner, and I will not be treated as less."

"_Grace—"_ he began, but she jerked his head again. He tightened his hold on her hips, panic punching through his shock, demanding he get her away, that he stop this, that he wrest back control. And then he finally registered the memory of her teeth on his skin.

"That's right," she said, soft and sweet and delighted at the power he had so foolishly given her. "I could have killed you just now, and you'd have never been the wiser. Threaten me again, and I swear I'll rip out your throat with my fucking teeth."

Jonathon sat still a long moment, heart raging against his ribs, nothing a confused jumble of lust and betrayal and fear. He still wanted to take her clothes off and run his tongue over every bit of her body, but now it was paired with the very real fear that she might cut off his head if he did it wrong.

She might have cut off his head anyway, if she knew how much he liked the feeling.

He nodded at her, and she climbed off his lap.

"Not above violence now, are we, Grace?" he asked. He couldn't look away from her, strangely expecting to see a serpent's tongue when she spoke.

"I'm never above getting what I want," she said, almost playful in the declaration. Then she hardened, her eyes darkening like the mountains at dusk. "Don't threaten me again, Jonathon."

She backed to the door, keeping his gaze, then swept into the hall. Jonathon closed his eyes and slumped in the chair. He should have expected nothing less.


	2. chapter two

_AN I think my favorite thing about this story is balancing the dynamic between Jonathan and Grace. We all know Grace is as clever as they come, but Jonathan has a delicious level of cunning that should not be dismissed. And I feel like he is easily one of the most observant people in the show, which goes along nicely with her tactical mind. Their skills compliment each other in such fantastic ways, oh my gosh._

* * *

Jonathan may have occasionally been a fool, but he would never let himself be called stupid. He minded Fort James, drilled the soldiers, continued to polish the place into perfect working order. Any time he saw Grace in the street, she was perfectly civil. Granted, she had a smugness that drove him crazy, a taunting _'I won because all you had in mind was your cock_' that tested his self-control. He would have loved to point out that _she_ hadn't had any criticisms at the time, either, but he was starting to realize that it wasn't the petty blows that would win this war.

He let her be. He didn't want to seem desperate and he didn't want to risk another attempt on his life, so he let her mind her own business. Really, every day he went without seeing her or touching her was just another victory, because _he didn't need her._

And then he received a letter, placed delicately at his elbow by the maid during breakfast. He looked it over once, then twice, then cursed.

He needed her.

A nearby governor had neatly invited himself to visiting Fort James under the pretense of greeting his new colleague. He and his friends (because of course the arrogant prick only traveled with a party of bootlickers) wouldn't stay for long, possibly only for dinner, because they didn't want to put Jonathan out. Jonathan couldn't tell if it was because they thought Fort James was such a shithole or because they really thought him stupid enough to think a week-long journey warranted only a single meal of safety and comfort. Either way, they would be coming and Jonathan knew he would never be able to make it through without Grace.

Only, now Grace had become accustomed to her taste of freedom and rebuffed every approach he made. She didn't want to come by their house for lunch, ignored him in the Ale, refused to let him broach the subject of business in the street.

So Jonathan did the one thing that would get her attention—he forbade every liquor vendor in Fort James from selling to her. He had been nervous that she wouldn't notice in time, after a few days had passed and she went about her business as usual, but soon enough he saw her running all over the fort, trying to beg, threaten, and cajole someone into supplying her.

"Upset there, love?" he asked, after watching her storm away from one of the vendors in the street. She turned to glare at him, clearly aware of what he had done.

"What exactly do I need to fix for my _liquor license_?" she snarled.

It wasn't that Jonathan enjoyed causing Grace problems, but he certainly enjoyed besting her at her own game.

"Oh, Grace," he said, unable to keep from taunting her just a little. "A decent woman like yourself supplying rough, untrustworthy men with spirits. Who knows what sort of unwholesome things could arise when you get their blood up?"

She rolled her eyes. They both knew she would cut out a man's tongue if he tried to so much as steal a kiss from her.

"You're doing this for jealousy?" she asked. "Afraid some idiot beaver trapper will take a grab at me?"

"Oh, no, I know you can defend yourself," he said lightly. "But it wouldn't be Christian of me to expose you to any such situation. Not as your new husband."

He almost ruined everything by breaking into a smile at her barely contained indignation. She bit the inside of her cheeks, bursting to yell at him.

"Take a walk with me," he said, taking her arm. She walked quietly at his side, and for a moment they were the perfect picture of husband and wife. Jonathan let her simmer in silence for a moment, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the visiting governor.

"Your interest in the Alehouse confuses me, Grace," he told her. "You spend all this time making it as good as it can be, and yet you fail to use your greatest asset."

"You, I'm assuming."  
"Exactly."  
"Maybe I would, if every favor from you didn't have to be bartered and bought," she shot back. "Bleeding me dry doesn't exactly engender trust."

"And what hardship have you endured at my hands, Grace?" he asked, casting her a look. She returned it, completely unimpressed.

"Keeping me from stocking the Alehouse comes to mind."

"Because you wouldn't _listen_ otherwise," he sighed, shaking his head. "I tried to get your attention all sorts of other ways, but you couldn't find the time of day."

"For a man that promised not to bother me after I _joined you,_ you're certainly doing your best to become a nuisance."

"This isn't a personal matter." Not that he didn't have plans for it to become one. "It's all business."

"'_Business' _suggests there's something for me to profit from," she said doubtfully.

"It's like you said, Grace—this partnership can only be successful if there's give and take."

"And what's _your_ give?" she asked, looking away.

"You've remained at the Alehouse," he said, starting to be amazed at how little good she saw in her situation. He was trying to give her all the power and prestige she craved, why did she have to fight him at every turn? "The business is yours, your time is yours, everything." He stopped and turned her so they were face to face. "Your life is yours to live. I just expect to be in it."

She studied him for a moment, then looked out to the sea. He knew that he had won when she sighed and looked back at him.

"Of course," she said. "But it's hard when you attack the things I hold dear."

Jonathan sighed through his nose. She could keep going in circles for forever, couldn't she? He set his shoulders and let go of her.

"Let's start fresh," he suggested. "Let's work _together, _Grace, as you once suggested."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "No more tricks?"

"None."

"And you won't impede the working of my business anymore?"

"If you back me as you said you would. I promise it'll be worth your while."

Grace's jaw ticked, like she was literally chewing his words over.

"The liquor vendors will give me all I need tomorrow?"

"First light," he promised.

"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "What is it you have in mind?"

* * *

Grace didn't like his plan. Practically anything that made her look like any other woman was a personal affront to her, he knew. But she knew as well as he that if they had any hope of tricking these well-to-do lords into leaving them alone, they had to appear as unthreatening as possible. Quiet, doting wives were not threatening. Tavern-owning women in breeches were supremely threatening.

As much as Grace hated having to dress up, it wasn't hard to see how beautiful it made her. She wore a dress made of green and cream fabric, her waist corseted into perfection, her hair bound in a comely knot on her head. She stood still and regal, waiting for their guests like she hadn't ever known anything else. Jonathan, meanwhile, felt out of place in his new clothes. He had been glad to focus on convincing Grace to help him, because then he wouldn't have to think about what a fool he was making of himself. He may have horded all the power he could when it was offered, but that didn't change the fact that he was the son of a butcher looking to impress the lords of the land.

"Is everything ready?" he asked Grace.

"Yes, the cook just told me the first course was ready."

"They'll be here any minute," he said, trying to reassure himself. He fought not to walk back to the window and check. He could climb through the forsaken forest at night without a worry, but a set of pretentious nobles put his teeth on edge. If he took one wrong turn, he would be pissing away all of the power and connections and favors these men had to offer.

"I know," Grace said.

"They'll be expecting a fine bred prat like _Johnson_ to be waiting for them, not fucking us."

Just the thought of Johnson made him want to spit. Johnson had curled his lip in a delicate, arrogant way from the moment he had first heard Jonathan talk, and it hadn't gotten better from there. It had been a struggle for Jonathan not to rip it off his face every time they met.

He glanced down when he felt a hand on his arm. Grace had stepped closer, a reassuring look on her face.

"Jonathan, calm down. You're no nobleman, there's no point in pretending to be."

He opened his mouth to protest (she wasn't exactly _helping_), but she shook her head, silencing him. "You've gotten this far without it, we'll be fine. Just be polite, stick to business, and don't look like you want to put their heads on a pike if they annoy you."

Jonathan pressed his lips together. She did the same, raising an eyebrow.

"Every time you talk about Johnson, you're ready to rip off his arms. The man's dead and you still look like you want to piss on his grave."

Jonathan fidgeted with his cuffs and muttered out a curse. It wasn't just Johnson that put him on edge. He could still hear Benton sneering at him as the man was hauled away in his nightshirt. _You'll never be more than a stray dog._ Jonathan had brushed away the insult at first, but now it clung on like every other poisonous thing Benton had to offer.

Grace put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her again. When he tried to look away, she turned his face back with a finger.

"It's as you said. Changed habits bring changed temperaments. They may seem big and impressive now, but so will you, once the role has time to fit."

He blinked. He hadn't expected her to relay his own words with such confidence.

"You believe that?"

"Of course."

"And what about you?" he asked. "If they judge me, they'll come after you."

Grace gave a tiny smile and smoothed the shoulders of his suit. "What could they possibly criticize me for? I'm the wife of the governor."

He took hold of her hand, already bolstered by her words. "That's right. And I'll prove your faith in me."

She smiled at him again. Jonathan would have kissed her senseless, if she wouldn't have yelled at him for mussing her dress.

Their guests were quick to arrive after that. There were three of them; the lord and governor, Sutherby, a young tradesman named Scholes, and a gruff, elderly magistrate named Woodhull. They were an odd mix, with Sutherby full of pompous affectation, Woodhull stern politeness, and Scholes delivering a load of charm that was absolutely wasted on Jonathan. He wondered what use the other two were to Sutherby, since he had decided to drag them along.

Jonathan couldn't tell why the men were there for the first hour. They ate his food, made small talk he didn't care about, and cast their eyes over every button and candlestick and bit of manners they could. Jonathan wanted to cut to the chase and ask what the hell these men wanted, but Grace's words kept him in check. So he tried to smile and look interested when the men spoke and laugh at boring jokes and fend off the little barbs of the privileged. He also resisted the urge to take out Scholes' eye with a fork every time he gazed at Grace's chest.

"Tell me, though, Chesterfield," Sutherby said, making a show of toying with his cutlery. "I'd heard you were quite close with Lord Benton while he was here, his right hand, even. Then, of course, you arrested him."

"Lord Benton was a man weak to power," Jonathan said.

All eyes snapped to him. Grace had suspected these men were here to see if they held any Continental ideas, considering how Jonathan had not just bit the noble hand that fed him, but eaten it whole.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling a little. The least of their worries was whether Jonathan would defect to the fucking Americans. They had to watch their backs in case he ate them as well.

"He abused the power granted to him by the Hudson's Bay Company, abused his men, endangered this fort, and dishonored the great name of our king. I could not sit by and let such vicious actions stand."

"My husband didn't relish his role in any of it," Grace told them. He liked how ready her liar's tongue worked for him. "But he was duty bound to see order and respect restored to the name of Fort James."

"I have seen for myself the way power corrupts," Woodhull said, a surprisingly convenient voice of reason. "It can turn even the best men into mad dogs."

"And, well, we've all heard whispers of how it made Lord Benton turn," Scholes muttered.

"I wish they were only whispers," Grace added. Her expression was the very picture of somber regret.

"Yes, well. One could argue that such dogged strength is needed out here in the wilderness, as it were," Sutherby said. Jonathan tried not to roll his eyes, because _clearly _such strength was not coming from Sutherby himself. "The Hudson's Bay Company can hardly afford sloppy leadership when everything else seems to be going to the dogs."

"And that is a strength I intend to deliver," Jonathan said.

Sutherby watched him over his wine glass, weighing the odds. Jonathan could see how he looked to the man: young, aggressive, smart enough to depose Benton, but also seemingly loyal to the crown. Whatever favors Sutherby would call on him later could be a liability. At the same time, Jonathan would make sure any task he was assigned would be completed, no matter the obstacle. He had seen this all before in the army, when self-serving officers had studied men for promotion had picked not the most able, but the most usable.

Jonathan reached under the table and put a hand on Grace's knee. She didn't react, eyes still on Sutherby, but after a moment she put her hand over his.

"I suppose this is a time that tries us all yet rewards the best," Sutherby said. So they were usable, then.

Fucking idiot.

"Oh, absolutely," Scholes agreed, looking like he wanted to take Grace in his mouth and eat her. "Rewards always find those that know what to do with their head."

Grace gave him a smile that was all ice before she turned to Sutherby. "But what are people, other than the company they keep?" she asked.

He tittered and called her a dear and drank some more wine, but it was clear he liked her response. He gave a sloppy toast to good company, then started talking about the independent traders in Montreal. Not that they were good, mind, of course it was causing plenty of trouble for the HBC, but…it was interesting, how successful they had become.

Jonathan smiled and let the conversation go where it would.

* * *

It took a life time, but their guests finally left. Grace wasted no time turning right around and going upstairs to change. She had made a point in putting on the dress here and she was making a point to take it off here.

"Did you see that?" he asked, following her. "Those idiots actually _believed _us."

"They _believed _because we gave them wine and unearned compliments."

"They believed because men of power trust power," he corrected her. She looked back at him at the doorway, mouth open to argue, but then she turned back around. He smirked in triumph at her reluctant agreement.

"Where's that bell?" she said, glancing around the room. "I want to get out of this thing and go home before it starts snowing again."

"Grace, you needn't be in such a rush," he said, still buoyed up by wine and victory. "We've plenty of time, yet."

"And in that time, it's definitely going to snow." She gave him a look that tried so hard to be forbidding, but he caught the smile in the edges of her voice. "Unless you wish to conjure up a carriage for me so I don't have to walk all the way back to the Ale in the cold."

"You never give up, do you," he muttered.

Grace ignored him in favor of cursing and trying to undo her dress herself. She glared at him over her shoulder and said, "Would you _please_ get the servant girl to come help me?"  
"I've hands enough," he said, stepping closer. He barely touched her laces before she swatted his hands away.

"I don't trust you not to have other plans."

"Of course I do," he smirked. She didn't look amused. Jonathan sighed and turned her around. "Grace, we are so much farther along than either of us could have dreamed being alone. We deserve to celebrate."  
She gave him an unimpressed look. "All you ever want is sex."

His breath caught in his throat for a second. That wasn't what he had meant. Of course his body ached to be with hers, of course he wanted to lie with her again, but the heart of his want wasn't just about _him._ Jonathan wanted Grace to want it, too, and he'd actually begun to think she had.

Maybe he was stupid, after all.

He pulled his hands from her elbows.

"I want to make you happy here," he told her. "I want this to be a place that you choose to sleep."

"And how will that change or improve things? We worked just fine today, regardless of where I sleep."  
"Other than I had to chase you down to even _inform _you of the dinner."

"Right. That reminds me. _You_ need to give back my bloody liquor, or you'll have a mob on your hands, Christian worries or no." She stabbed a finger into his chest, a playful enough action that made him smile.

That was the maddening thing about Grace—just when it thought it was useless, she would never thaw, they would never work, she went and did something that made him hope. She stayed after she said she would leave, she let him come breathtakingly close, she played along with his games.

He took her hand. "You'll get it tomorrow, as promised. I just needed your attention."  
"_Most_ people usually say my name."

"Grace."

"Mm?"

He leaned in closer. "_Grace._"  
She hesitated, then pulled away. Grace closed her eyes in a slow blink like she was a little dazed, then sat in the nearby chair.

"I'm not doing anything tonight," she told him, but it sounded an awful lot like she was telling herself. "Get the bloody maid so I can go."

"And why do you so insist to change?"

"If you'd like to put this on and find out, be my guest."  
He studied her for a moment. Grace always had the right words at her disposal, knew how to twist facts and lie and manufacture a truth that anyone could believe. But her body, that she had less control over. It was always the smallest eye blink or flick of the fingers or the barest hesitation before she turned around. They made a map Jonathan knew how to read perfectly, and it was his map to hope.

He knelt in front of her. Grace's eyebrows instantly pulled in suspicion.

"What're you doing?"

He leaned in, chin by her knee. "I liked hearing you say you were my wife."

"Yes, well, it's been a fact for a while now."

"But I liked hearing you say it. I liked hearing you call me your husband."

He reached out and pressed a hand against her calf. Her retort was cut off in favor of a gasp, a little flinch running up her body. She stared at him in surprise, lips pressing hard together.

"Jonathan, I have to go."

"You sat down," he told her, savoring the way her voice already quivered.

Grace stared at him, expression more calculating. He moved his hand beneath the bundle of fabric to her actual leg, warm and smooth beneath its stocking.

"Tonight we charmed the lords of this land," he said, hand moving higher and higher. Grace took hold of the arm rests, clearly making an effort not to clench them in her hands. "They don't see us as a threat. Then we sell the furs, turn more profits, cut down the lawless misery that's carving these shores apart. Then, who knows. _We'll_ be the ones everyone looks to for guidance, for permission."

A flush was rising in her cheeks. She stared him down as he took hold of her hips, trying so hard to tell him that she didn't care a wit. He kissed her knee, then higher up on her thigh, and then even higher.

Just as always, Grace's body told the story her words did not. Her pulse raged beneath his hands and she became wetter with each second. And, of course, when he tried to pull away, she grabbed hold of his hair.

Jonathan allowed himself a moment of triumph, and then he made her moan.

She scowled at him when he finished, but that was because she had lost and they both knew it. He pulled himself up to her level and tried to kiss her, but Grace leaned away.

"I'm not letting you kiss me like that."

He let out a huff of disbelief and kissed her neck instead. Her breathing was unwieldy as he kissed her ear, and then her jaw, but Grace wasn't fooled when he tried for her mouth again.

"I told you _no,_" she said, turning the other direction.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and walked to the water pitcher across the room. He rinsed his mouth, listening to her stand and adjust her dress.

He turned around to find her still glaring at him. Jonathan knew she wanted him to school himself into something contrite, maybe, or nonchalant, but she looked even more tempting now that she was a little bit rumpled. And she was still there.

"Don't tell me you're still so eager to get out of that dress," he said.

She lifted her chin. Her pupils had blown wide, making her eyes dark and dangerous.

"Oh, I am," she told him, and then she kissed him hard enough to make him stagger.

It felt like mere moments before he had her out of her clothes. Grace didn't hesitate or falter this time, pushing him onto the bed with an absolutely filthy look. Jonathan kissed her, tongue gaining access to her mouth. His whole body was thrumming, filled to the brim with the success of the night and the glory of running his hands over Grace's body. Everything was going so _right,_ fitting into place like he had always known it should.

Grace straddled him, making him groan. Her kisses were like a bonfire after a long winter night: burning, dangerous if he came too close, and everything he had dreamed of while he wandered in the dark. Jonathan could have almost let every time be like this, just laying back as Grace had her way with him.

She took his face in her hands, letting him kiss her neck as she whispered every gilded truth he wanted to hear. He had done well, he was promised victory in this and all things, she was proud of his success, she wanted him, she wanted him, she wanted _him._

He wanted her. He had her, he was _inside_ her, but a part of Jonathan couldn't believe that the woman under his hands was Grace. Grace who had fought him, Grace who had schemed with him, Grace who had driven him to distraction, she was there because she wanted to be, because she liked to be, because he needed her to be. His fingertips dug into her hips and her hands were braced on the wall by his head and he didn't know what to do with so much pleasure so he cursed and he cursed and he cursed until they were done.

He kissed her when it was over. Grace's hair had come loose, he wasn't sure when, but it tickled his face as his teeth caught her lip.

"Tell me you're not still afraid," he murmured. He hadn't meant to say them, hadn't really thought about them and all they carried that night, but he couldn't help but be struck by how different she was to the last time they had had sex. Then, she had been anxious on the verge of tears, and now...

He didn't want to think she looked like she belonged, because the moment he became complacent was the moment he lost everything.

Grace looked at him for a long moment. He could see her thinking, considering, weighing her options. Her expression was startlingly open, broken down by the same pleasure and triumph he was running high on.

"I'm not," she said, and the simplicity of the word made him believe her. She traced his hairline, touch light as a snowflake.

"Does this mean you'll stay?" he asked.

"For the night," she said.

Jonathan pulled her closer in case this was just another lie.

* * *

Jonathan didn't quite know what bliss was, but he suspected he was very, very close. The thin light through the curtains was just enough to settle on Grace's hair, the curve of her cheek. She was beautiful as always, but softened now, less likely to gut a man and sell him his own liver.

She didn't say anything when she first woke up, simply looked at him, and for a moment they were caught just staring, taking the other in. Then she shivered and moved closer against his side. Jonathan suppressed a smile. Grace was always quick to seek out the strongest source of heat in a room, but the fact that she took shelter against him still caused a flicker of pride.

Jonathan kissed the corner of her mouth and she didn't protest. Progress indeed.

"I don't want to get out of bed," she mumbled.

"_This _is why I kept insisting you stay," he told her.

Grace rolled her eyes, the moment broken. "I'm talking about the _cold, _you arrogant prick."

"That's no way to speak to your husband."

"You're making me regret being so nice last night," she warned him. Like he hadn't had to barter for every inch of ground he'd gained. He'd had to make her climax before she would admit that she was enjoying herself.

"Ah, don't be like that," Jonathan said, then gave her another kiss. Grace, of course, gave in with a grumble. But she didn't actually stop him, because this was always so much better than arguing.

Grace eased herself more upright on the bed. Jonathan shifted so that he was on top of her but kissing up, like he was looking up into the heavens. Jonathan had been right, he had always known it. Their minds worked alike, their methods were compatible, and even their bodies fit together like they were made for each other. Surely, this was how it was supposed to be.

Grace ran a hand up his back, fingers spread out to explore first one shoulder blade then the other. He kissed down her neck, mouth open, tongue tracing her pulse. Her hand wandered higher, then it passed over his scar.

A lightning bolt of panic smashed into him and for a second he couldn't think, he was just raw instinct, this was bad this was wrong he had to stop her she knew fuck she knew she knew she knew _she fucking knew._

Grace stared at him, trying very hard to appear calm. She swallowed, the tiniest, most strangely alluring movement. A lock of red hair had fallen into her face.

"Jonathan," she said, voice very low. He could feel the vibration of it in his hand. He didn't remember grabbing her shoulder. Or her wrist. "Jonathan, calm down. What just happened?"

He shook his head. He didn't know. All he knew was that she had touched his scar, which was fine, it wasn't like she had hurt him, he had barely felt it. Except she knew _why_ he had it, she knew about his father, which would have been fucking _fine_ except she was Grace and animal instinct told him that she would take that knowledge and sink her fangs into his flesh.

"Jonathan." She tried to pull her wrist free, but Jonathan tightened his grip. It hurt to be this physically tense, but he could not uncoil the spring in each of his muscles.

Grace worked her jaw, then let out a breath. Her nipples had hardened in the cold.

"If you're going to get out of bed," she began, "go. Otherwise, lay back down. The air is freezing."

He stared at her, not quite understanding. She was talking like this...was _fine._ Was it fine? Jonathan couldn't tell anymore. He had learned to protect any weakness with tooth and claw, but he had already given her this. Surely, it didn't count. Surely, if she was going to do something, she would have done it.

He let go of Grace. He couldn't look her in the face. The red marks from his hands were frightfully clear on the white of her skin.

"You...know what that was, right?" he asked. He didn't quite know what he was saying, he had barely known he had any words left. Fear often skinned him of reason and left only reflex.

Something darkened in Grace's face. He refused to name it, in case it turned out to be something like pity.

"Your father..." she began, but thought better of finishing.

"I—I didn't think—no one's ever known what they were before," he stammered. The tension dripped away, leaving him exhausted and yet still painfully alert.

"May I see it?"

He looked at Grace. She still had that careful calm, practiced and precise in the face of danger. Because, of course he was dangerous. His father could rear nothing less. Dangerous and wounded, like an animal Jonathan had once seen displayed in a cage.

And yet, Grace was still there. Not just there in that moment, but there with him. She had seen what he could do, had likely guessed at the rest, and still she had married him. Still she had helped him. Still she had joined him in bed.

He turned, just enough for her to see.

She might have gasped, he wasn't certain. He had never known what the scars looked like, though his sisters had bravely told him it wasn't that bad after everything had healed. Jonathan didn't quite remember the moment his father had marked him. He remembered everything around it, of course, the panic, the anger, the fear, the sick regret that he had been caught. But the moment the iron had touched his skin was gone, burned out of his mind by the heat of the metal.

He bit his cheek when she touched the scar again. It was only a feather touch, there and then gone, but it still happened. Then Grace was turning him back around, touch just as light as before. Her expression was still open, but his mind was too jagged to read it. He barely registered when she touched the scar across his collarbone.

"Come, lay back down," she whispered to him, hand almost caressing his jaw.

Jonathan hesitated. It couldn't be that easy. This had to be a trick. He had to be exposing himself if he leaned into her touch like he wanted.

She gave him a tiny smile, like she was waiting to take all of his burdens, if only for this moment.

"You must be tired. Here, sleep. We have time enough." When he didn't immediately respond, she softened her voice. "It's alright, Jonathan, we have time."

She guided him with her fingertips until he was close enough for Grace to wrap her arms around. She ran a thumb up and down his spine, stroking all of the remaining tension and anxiety from his blood. Her breath was soft against his ear, her body warm and undemanding. This was not Grace, fearsome and vengeful, the hoarder of secrets and enacter of terrible schemes, but Grace, the creature he had barely let himself fathom even in his most desperate dreams.

He slid his arms around her and pressed his face against her neck.

* * *

_AN knock knock hear that it's called everyone's got damage and i'm going to milk this cash cow for all it's worth._


	3. chapter three

_AN So I'm about three months late in finding out frontier was cancelled but at this point I'm basically the queen of the damned, so tally-ho._

* * *

Something had changed and Jonathan couldn't quite say what. He liked it, that much he did know. He and Grace worked like they were always supposed to, trading favor for secret for dollop of truth for stolen moments in bed.

Grace was very set on keeping the rules, though. She never said it out loud, but this much was clear: they were schemers first, lovers second, and only then when she wanted and where she wanted. She might stay the night but always left in the mornings, he never was allowed to see her bed much less sleep with her on it, and though everyone in Fort James _knew_ they were fucking, he wasn't allowed to acknowledge it in front of her.

Still, Jonathan made as much use of the grey areas as possible. Such as, Grace never let him in her bed, but he could come terribly close on her back table.

Grace might have given him a reproachful look for following her into the back after closing, but she hadn't exactly stopped him when he hiked her legs around his waist and dropped her onto the table. She hadn't wasted much time in sticking her tongue in his mouth, either.

It was always a funny thing, kissing Grace outside the confines of the governor's house. They were allowed to pet, but only until he wanted to take her clothes off. He could touch her breasts, but she would end things before they became too intense. He had full license to give her love bites, _if_ they weren't obvious. And, of course, she would let him get away with a lot more if he distracted her with something else.

"Any word on buyers for our furs," he asked, the words blurring against her mouth.

"Don't tell my I'm not distraction enough for you." She tried to sound unaffected, but she was a little breathless after the love bite he had worked against her collarbone.

He looked at her, hands anchored on her hips. "You told me I should keep my focus."

Grace rolled her eyes, but said, "It's going slow. After the nightmare with Samuel Grant, I want to know _exactly_ who we're getting into bed with."

"Remind me again what he did that's so pissed you off." He suspected it had something to do with Grant delivering Declan Harp to Benton in what was so clearly a double cross, but he was learning other tricks, too. Grace would immediately fight back if he made open accusations, but she might let something slip if he approached her from the side. Jonathan didn't _want _his suspicions about Harp confirmed, but the man had grabbed his attention with all the perverse fascination of a tooth ache and now Jonathan couldn't help but pull.

But Grace just said dismissed the question with careful ease. "I don't trust him. He's smart, but he has no morals."

"And what about us?" he asked. He could feel her smile when he kissed her again.

"The whole world can't lose its head."

He scoffed out a laugh and moved to her neck again. More than the subtle approach, Grace was particularly vulnerable when he walked that line between punishment and pleasure. Sure enough, her sentence faltered as he laid open-mouthed kisses on her pulse point.

"And—anyway, things are—things are messy in Montreal, and I don't—I don't want to invite more trouble."

Jonathan pressed his forehead against her collarbone as he undid the buttons of her vest. She shivered as his every exhale traveled down the gully of her breasts. It would be so _easy_ for them to do it right there, just a few minutes, longer if she liked, he just had to get her out of her breeches.

"You'll manage it," he murmured. "You could topple empires, if you wanted."

But Grace, clever Grace, held his face in her hands and made him look at her. She always knew how to turn it back on him.

"I will. But not without you."

Jonathan let go of all their schemes then and pushed her back on the table, mouth teasing lower on her breast than before. Grace tried to smother her groan of pleasure, but he could feel it in every place they touched. He just had to get his knee onto the table, and then he'd be on her and there was no way she would be able to tell him to stop—

"Miss Emberly?"

Those stupid barmaids would be the death of him.

"Send her away," he said, hand going up her shirt in a final bid. But she was already slipping away, restraint coming in spades.

"No, it could be important."

"_Grace—"_

She pushed him back and sat up. Jonathan ground his teeth against a curse as the girl asked, "Miss Emberly, are you down here?"

"Ah, yes, Mary, one moment."

She got off the table, hands fumbling for the buttons he had just undone. He knew he should try to help her, but she settled for doing just enough to keep her clothes together and walked to the doorway. Mary nearly collided with her when she reached the curtain. The girl blinked in surprise at Grace, stammering an apology, at least until her gaze landed on Jonathan.

She didn't glare, _exactly,_ she never _really_ made any hostile action toward Jonathan, but he could always taste her resentment in the air. She also insisted calling Grace '_Miss Emberly,_' like he was nothing and his name was nothing and Grace could never sink to being addressed as such. He guessed Mary had never gotten over his little threat to arrest her. Then again, Mary only seemed most offended when he was around Grace. If Imogen was a rat, Mary was one of those annoying herd dogs—innocent enough, but liable to sink her teeth into your leg if she thought her mistress in danger.

Grace shooed Mary into the main room, asking what the problem was.

"I was just going to tell you that I think Mr. Heinrich stole his wash pitcher. That or he broke it."

"It's a fucking _pitcher,_ surely you can buy another," Jonathan said, following them out from the back. Mary glanced at him, but refused to speak.

"It's the principle of the thing," Grace sighed. "If he breaks a pitcher and says nothing, he might do more. Have you found anything that might be pieces of it?"

"No, ma'am, it was just missing when I cleaned his room. I didn't want to raise a fuss by asking him directly."

Grace told Mary she would handle it, then dismissed her upstairs. Jonathan tried not to make a face as she cast them one last mistrusting look before disappearing.

"I'm surprised you didn't offer to raid his room right now," Grace said. He wasn't sure if she was oblivious to Mary's dislike for him, or if she genuinely didn't care. He buried his doubt beneath a scoff.

"What, and upset my men by hauling them out of their beds for a pitcher?" He leaned back against the table. "They're supposed to like me better than Benton, not see me as another twat to overthrow."

"I didn't realize this was such a popularity contest."

"If I give them enough food, let them stay where it's warm, and treat them like people rather than dogs, they'll face even Declan Harp for me."

"Would they." She turned away to tidy the already clean counter, hiding her own insecurities with disinterest.

"I didn't become a captain for nothing," he said, catching her arm and turning her back around. She over-corrected and ended up so that her back was to his front. He clicked his tongue but still settled his arms around her.

"What, you dazzled your underlings until they hounded everyone for your promotion?" she asked.

"I licked the boots of every soft-hearted bastard that might give me an advance. And stepped on anyone that tried to get ahead of me, but no one ever saw that."

Some of Jonathan's fellows had whispered how he would do anything to get ahead. Which was why they had ended up dying as foot soldiers during the American War for Independence and he had sailed on to outrank them all.

"And you found Lord Benton...how, exactly?"

"He found me, Devil by the wayside," Jonathan said. "But enough of that."

He kissed her ear, and Grace leaned into his touch enough to make him think that they could pick up from earlier. But as soon as he had unwrapped his arms from around her, she stepped out of reach.

"Sorry, Lord Governor, but the inn is closed."

"And you don't have _one_ room open?" he asked. A part of him was disappointed, but the rest of him found it so funny that she still acted like she felt nothing when a few minutes earlier, he'd had her groaning on a table.

Her expression remained dispassionate. "Not a one."

"Shame." Jonathan straightened and adjusted his vest. Two could play that game. "Pretty soon, you'll appreciate the fact that there's always one in the governor's house."

"Oh, I appreciate it now. I just don't have a need for a second bed at the moment."

Jonathan scoffed and went to the back to grab his cloak. He kept his voice even as he called, "But you'll come for dinner tomorrow?"

"Aye, Jonathan, I'll come for dinner tomorrow."

He smothered his smile as he walked back into the main room. Jonathan made to walk past Grace, but she caught his elbow at the last second. He glanced back, expecting her to say something, but Grace merely traced his lower lip with a finger. He blinked in confusion, then blinked again when she slowly, carefully, licked her finger.

"I look forward to it," she whispered.

Jonathan opened his mouth, frozen for a moment, not certain if she was teasing him or inviting him to rip off her clothes there. He could already imagine how easily the fabric would give beneath his hands, seams and buttons ripping, exposing the palest parts of her skin.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I think your bed is waiting for you. Best not keep it much longer."

Jonathan swallowed. It was only Grace's obvious amusement that made him turn and walk to the door.

He was thankful, for once, that the night was so cold as he made the long walk back to the governor's house.

* * *

When things went right with Grace, they went right with everything else. Not only was she the linchpin of Fort James' inner workings, aware of the bartering in the market and attuned to the pulse of the black market, but she also was the center of morale. Her threat against Benton hadn't been idle—warm food, friendly conversation, and a good drink was the only safe haven some of these men had, out here in the new world. Not to mention that she used her connections and influence to help others, but only as a means to helping herself. Grateful men did far more than threatened ones.

If Jonathan could go to sleep knowing that she wasn't plotting something in that tavern of hers, he could do anything. Fort James glowed under his care, partly because of Grace's added suggestions, but mostly because of his own maneuvering. He understood what it meant to be cold and hungry and scraping together pennies to buy a somewhat decent coat, and the people saw that. They might have always respected his power, but now they were coming to respect him as a man.

Grace saw it. She never said outright, but Jonathan always noticed the satisfied bit of pride that flickered on her face when she saw how very good he could be. He never said outright, either, matching her and making it a game, but he was certain they could taste it on each other's skin.

Others saw the good progress, too. Vanstone said as much one day, stamping his feet in the snow to try and beat back the cold.

"Gone and tamed that wife of yours, then, have you?"

Jonathan tried to swallow his smile. Grace would have his tongue on a platter if she ever heard him say he had _tamed_ her, no matter how true it was.

"All women mellow with marriage, Vanstone," he said instead. "It just takes the right kind of man to chase them there."

"No one in this place could have predicted any man capable of doing that," Vanstone said, shaking his head. "She'll not squeeze the life out of you when she thinks you've got some piece of news, now. Actually smiles when you talk to her, all the lads have noticed."

"Helps when she has something to laugh about."

"So _that's_ what it is," Vanstone said, a knowing smile on his lips. "I'd heard you two had sorted things. All the beds in the governor's house need replacing, then?"

Vanstone was, as a general rule, an unimaginative bootlicker, and the whole fort knew it. He would kiss ass and cozy himself up to anyone he thought might give him an advance, but he was also one of the highest-ranking soldiers left in the Fort and the closest thing Jonathan had to a second hand. So Jonathan smiled, brushed off the comment, and did not tell Vanstone to shut the fuck up about his wife. Jonathan's only consolation was how very impressed Grace would be, seeing him control his temper like that.

* * *

Grace was becoming a comfortable sight around the governor's house. Jonathan had to convince her first, bribing her with food or promising pleasure or luring her away with the silence and space she never found at the Ale. He didn't mind it too much. Every second she spent there was a second she spent with him. Grace may have made it clear that she only came at her own convenience, but they both knew that Jonathan was the ultimate cause.

That wasn't to say that waiting for her whims was easy. He sometimes wanted to bite through his cheek in frustration that she wasn't always there when he wanted, but he was learning patience. Having Grace's teeth at his throat tended to do that.

But patience also meant he nearly jumped out of his skin when Jonathan heard her walk through the front door. Dread curled in his stomach at the thought of whatever catastrophe had made her come to the governor's house well after dark. He left his study to find her in the parlor, settling her coat over the back of a chair as always.

When she noticed him, Grace gave Jonathan an unimpressed look, hands on her hips like she couldn't imagine what he was fussing over.

"Is something wrong?" he finally asked.

"Other than I'm starving and it's cold as sin out there, no." She stepped closer, mouth twisting at his wary expression. "You look like you've seen the dead, Jonathan."

"I just…didn't expect you to come." A new flash of panic went through him that he tried to swallow. She would probably kick him if he had invited her over and completely forgotten. Or, even, worse, would decide to not come back at all.

And he couldn't forget that the last time she had come uninvited, it had ended with her threatening to rip out his throat.

"We didn't agree on it, did we?"

Grace's expression changed very quickly, a flurry of feeling going over her face all at once. First the beginnings of a frown, then surprised realization, then something much cooler, apathy, maybe. She stepped past him, casual as could be.

"No," she sighed. "I was just tired of the noise and bustle of the Ale. Is there anything left in the pantry I can have? I don't think I've eaten since lunch."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, but followed her into the kitchen. He helped her pick through the cabinets for something approaching a meal, but he couldn't help but watch her the entire time. He kept expecting something to give her away, the barest trace of a look, the nervous twitch of a hand. Grace never did anything without reason.

Grace sat on the edge of the table, nibbling on cheese and a piece of bread. Jonathan stood opposite her, leaning against the counter.

"You're up late," she said, not looking at him.

"Damn ledger's driving me mad," he admitted. "The HBC's the most powerful entity out here, and yet we're being bled by all these damn independent traders. Soon the blood trail will be long enough to reach London, and then we'll be in the shit."

"Has Sutherby or any of them said anything about it?"

"They've talked about how I should throw them a party, arrogant cocksuckers."

So far, Sutherby and his gang of bootlickers hadn't exactly proved to be the gold mine he and Grace had expected. A series of irritating notes had slipped across the countryside, presented with the post during breakfast and promptly discarded when Jonathan discovered they contained nothing important. His responses were brief and written only to maintain the image of civil friendship. Usually, they went with a lot of teeth grinding.

Grace's laugh was small and immediately smothered by a hand. Jonathan bit back a smile of his own.

"All that money and they can't even afford to host a party of their own," she sighed. "Typical."

Jonathan bit into a piece of bread. He and Grace had already exhausted their contempt toward those born into comfort and wealth, particularly those who kept it at the cost of others.

Grace stuck her foot out, barely catching his leg.

"What are your plans for solidifying your hold out here?" she asked. "Nothing extreme, I hope. It's only just started to calm down out here."

"_Calm._ I don't know if this fucking place knows the difference."

"Oh, it was quite civil before you came."

Jonathan shot her a look. The New World was born frothing at the mouth, no matter what the colonists said. Still, he didn't want to fight with Grace and her baffling protectiveness over the frozen mudflat that was Fort James, so he chose a halfway point.

"Before Benton came with his stupid vendetta," he sighed. Jonathan pressed his fingers into his eyes, weary at the thought of all the havoc Benton had caused during his few months in Fort James. "Of course, even after the arrogant prick's been carted off to rot, I've still got to clean up his mess."

Grace looked thoughtful as she sipped her tea. Jonathan mulled over her words, then sighed again.

"I don't know how to stop the damn independents without starting another war," he said softly. He folded his arms and looked at her. "I could ask for a ship full of soldiers to crush everyone that crosses me come spring, but it sends a message that the Lakewalkers won't like. The people in Montreal don't care for the laws of the HBC, but if I burn them to the ground, there will be plenty of magistrates and angry businessmen looking for my head. Not to mention we won't have any buyers for our own endeavors."

Grace raised her eyebrows, as though impressed by how easily he had summed everything up. She didn't say anything, though, just finished off her bread and gestured for him to get her some more. He brought the loaf over and cut off a slice.

"Don't tell me that cunning mind of yours has stopped now," he said, handing the bread to her.

"I'm just trying to think of a solution. Harp is successful with the Lakewalkers because he's part Cree, but there has to be something you can do. There has to be someone else they trade with."

Jonathan worked his jaw. That was another person whose wake had made his life hell. Declan Harp didn't seem to have a purpose other than to randomly appear from the dark, slaughter a few soldiers, destroy some goods, then disappear again. Everyone whispered about the renegade power of the Black Wolf Trading Company, but from what Jonathan had seen, they were lawless malcontents that played at being tradesmen.

And Harp was a proper pain in the ass, constantly complicating things with Grace. She guarded her thoughts and feelings behind a glacier of indifference, but he could always see that extra moment of consideration she took before saying Harp's name. Whatever was there, it was too complicated and knotted for Jonathan to be allowed into, and it made him want to burn it to the ground.

"If nothing else, we could poison that relationship and place ourselves as the alternative," Grace mused.

The ease with which she said it made Jonathan laugh. Immediately, her brow furrowed in annoyance.

"What?"

"That's the exact plan Benton had when he first came," Jonathan said.

She considered him, torn between resenting Benton's methods and respecting how effective they were. "Did…it work?"

"You tell me," he said, reaching past her to take a drink from her teacup.

Grace rolled her eyes as she pulled the cup from his hands. "That's because Lord Benton has all the subtlety of a pick axe. I, on the other hand, am much more delicate."

"And this is your job, now?" he asked. He liked the heat of her, muted and yet undeniable now that he had moved so close. Her knee was starting to burn where it touched his hip.

"You came to me, remember?"

"Oh, I remember you coming to this house, asking for food." He tipped his head at the teacup, which she held a little tighter. He was still waiting for the real reason she had come.

"Don't make me sound like I'm a stray dog," she muttered, the words disappearing as she took another sip.

"You're much too lovely for that," he whispered, then leaned closer to kiss her neck.

Jonathan could feel Grace shiver as he pulled her closer, working his way up her neck. But she didn't fight him and she didn't push away, so he kissed her on the mouth. When his teeth caught on her lip, she opened her mouth and let out a tiny little moan. Jonathan pushed her legs apart and kissed her harder. As if on reflex, her legs wrapped around his waist and she gave into the kiss.

He leaned into her, letting his breath catch as she ran her hands through his hair. He was just starting to consider undoing her vest when she gasped and pulled back.

"What?" he asked. He sounded drunk in his own ears, sloppy and alarmed like when he had that falling sensation when almost asleep.

"I—not on the table," she said, turning her face away. Her legs came down from around his waist, leaving them disentangled but still connected.

He gave her a look that he hoped was incredulous instead of suspicious. If Grace had come to bargain, she probably wanted to do it before he took her to bed, if she let him take off her clothes at all.

"You were fine the other day—"

"Because it was mine and I knew no one had slaughtered rabbit on it."

"Then come off," he said, sliding her toward the edge.

Grace smacked his chest, making him stop. "No, this is a bad idea. The cook is right next door."

"So? It's our house, Grace. He's being paid well enough to listen to us."

Grace's expression was so unimpressed and vaguely disgusted that Jonathan couldn't help but laugh. He kissed her neck again, searching for the boundaries of the moment, searching for what it was Grace actually wanted. She continued to protest, but she didn't seem to mind the attention.

"Well, our cook has a taste of spirits. I don't need him airing our exploits to the world the next time I have to cut him off."

He made a sound of contempt. If the cook was idiot enough to shit on the plate he fed on, that was his business. Jonathan hadn't come all this way to pander to ungrateful malcontents.

Jonathan rested his head on Grace's shoulder so they could just barely look at each other.

"Things really have changed. My sister had to worry about hands going up her skirt when she worked in a lord's house." And now he was the lord himself, not some gutter rat that had to look on as his sister weathered abuse.

He shrugged, not ready to say that out loud. "Cook's doing fine if he just has to worry about not getting his brandy."

Grace's eyebrows pulled in that way that meant he had told her something she didn't expect.

"You have a sister?" she asked.

"Yes."

Jonathan straightened, looking at her, searching for any sign that he had made a mistake in mentioning Emily. The comment had slipped out, a passing thought that fell from his lips. When he had shared the story about his brand, it had been a calculated risk to show his trust in her, to show he was human, to test what she would do with the knowledge. But now he had gone and said something private all because it was late and he was feeling randy.

They had left their fighting and need for ammunition behind, but both knew leverage was never wasted.

Grace's gaze didn't leave his face. She just watched him, terribly curious and carefully silent.

Then again, if he gave her this shred of his life, maybe it would undermine her when she finally demanded whatever she was there for.

"I have three," he told her. "One's married, one's engaged, working as a maid, and the other's apprenticed to a tailor. Not much room for daughters in a butcher's house." Jonathan wrung out a smile. "Nor a son, to think of it."

Grace tilted her head as she mulled over his words. "Did they…did you tell them you'd been married?"

"No."

He hadn't told them very much since he had joined the army. His last letter mentioned that he was going to the New World in hopes of a better position. It left out that it was at the whim of the devil made aristocrat, and the fact that Jonathan was willing to murder, cheat, and steal to leave the filth he'd grown up in. Some things could be understood in sentiment and yet completely rejected in words.

Jonathan tilted his head. "Did you tell your father?"

"No," Grace said, the word slipping out on a scoff. Her expression flickered, a whole tale of love and loss in the briefest moment. He would have called her beautiful, if she weren't so sad.

"We're beyond them now, aren't we?" he murmured.

Grace straightened, eyebrows pulled yet again in alarmed surprise. She scoured his face, though he didn't know what she wanted to find. He wanted her to, though. Whatever she was looking for, Jonathan wanted Grace to find it when she looked into his eyes. He wanted her but more than that he wanted her to want him, not a moment of pleasure nor a means of improvement, but as _Jonathan_. The thought should have terrified him.

Grace eased off the table and walked toward the door. Jonathan moved back, breath held, uncertain if he had upset her.

Then she glanced back, took him by the hand, and led him upstairs.

Jonathan followed Grace like she wanted, not sure what to think. Her whole visit hadn't gone the way he expected

Grace watched him step into the room after her, gaze expectant as he closed the door. She pulled him closer, the barest ghost of a touch. Jonathan brushed her cheek with a knuckle, curious if her expression hid something in the muted light of the fire.

Jonathan pulled her hair free. She didn't protest. He kissed her. She didn't pull away. Instead, she undid the buttons of his vest, then eased him out of his shirt.

They studied each other in the dark, her hands on his chest, his hands on her shoulders. Grace's eyes ran across his bare skin. When she looked back up at his face, her pupils were blown wide. She looked like a creature that blessed and gave, rather than something that stole and destroyed.

Jonathan didn't know if he trusted his wife, not completely, but he _wanted_ to.

So he kissed her, and then he kissed her again, imagining what it would be like if they weren't built to fight.

Jonathan moved Grace back to the bed, easing her out of her clothes. Grace didn't seem to mind that he took his time removing her boots. She put a hand in his hair when he kissed her knee, and he couldn't help but lean into her touch. He could never help himself around her.

Grace pushed him back into the pillows, then rid him of the rest of his clothes. Jonathan was exquisitely aware of every place they touched, from her knee between his legs to her breasts against his stomach to her hands on his face. He almost groaned when she caught his lower lip between her teeth and traced it with her tongue.

"You never answered my question," he told her.

Grace made an intoxicating little sound of disbelief, mumbling, "About the trade? I gave you plenty of options."

He didn't want options. He wanted the truth. He wanted to know why she was here, he wanted to know just how long it would take before they stopped needing these games, he wanted to know what he had to do to make her happy.

Grace's whole body shivered as he ran a thumb along her spine, her breath catching and her eyes flitting shut for the briefest moment. That tiny bit of surrender filled him with an ache that he lusted for and yet hated. Power, _control,_ it was a drug to the two of them, something they craved and fought for and bloodied themselves over. Jonathan and Grace would do anything, _had_ done anything, to get more. And yet here they were, making themselves weak to each other, exposing their skin and their secrets to the other's fangs. It was exciting and stupid and intoxicating and infuriating and Jonathan didn't know how he could doubt Grace's intentions in coming here but completely believe that this moment was an act of trust.

"What would you have me do, Grace?" he whispered, the words barely meeting her skin. "What would you have me do?"

She tried to kiss him into silence, but he didn't quite let her reach, frustrating her for putting him in this position at all. Instead he pulled her breeches off, the last things between them. Grace straddled him and leaned in for another kiss.

"That's not an answer," he told her, lips already finding her throat.

Her hand clenched in his hair again as his tongue found her pulse point. She made a little humming noise as he kept kissing her, and never before had he wanted so badly for a sound to taste. His hands slid up her thighs and to her back, thumbs marking her hips and stomach and ribs.

"Charm them," she breathed, words faint as she tried to focus. "Woo them as you did Lord Sutherby. Make them want to work with you, with the HBC."

He tilted his head, thumbs now caressing the underside of her breasts. She was starting to pant, each little sound making him harder.

"That's all?"

"Of course not," she said, rolling her hips against his as though in punishment for not believing she had more. He couldn't keep from groaning as she held him to her, hands smoothing over his shoulders and up his neck. He clenched his teeth, unsure whether to tell her to keep going or to just mount him already and stop teasing.

"If they refuse," Grace said, voice thicker, more savage and reckless and _honest,_ he would slaughter entire cities just for the pleasure of her being honest, "burn them to the ground. Make yourself the best ally, but also the most terrible foe."

Jonathan groaned and pulled Grace down onto him. She let out the prettiest little gasp, like she was somehow surprised he wanted to be inside her. But then she moved with him like she could hear his thoughts and wants echoed through his fingertips.

Maybe she could, Grace always did understand him better than anyone else in this forsaken heap. And he knew her, from every twisted word and clever thought to each doubt and inability. They were crooked parts of a stunning whole, and God help whatever got in their way.

Grace looked up into his face once they were done, expression quiet. He couldn't call it soft, not really, not when they had basically both come to the thought of destroying their enemies, but there was something mild and thoughtful in her face.

She fought to calm her breath, heart still pounding beneath his chest. Grace raised a hand and ran the back of her finger along his cheek, curving down to his chin. He waited, expecting her to say something, _needing_ her to finally say something, to explain what she wanted. He couldn't keep sitting there, allowing hope to poison all the strength he had left. But Grace just trailed her finger higher to his mouth, up over his lower lip.

Jonathan pretended to bite at it, making her scowl in annoyance and grab his chin. They stared at each other, waiting, waiting. She lifted her hand again and traced first one eyebrow, then the other with two of her fingers. She followed his hairline down to his beard, like he was something she didn't quite understand.

"What is it?" he murmured. _What do you want?_

"Nothing," she whispered back.

Jonathan almost challenged her on it, almost pointed out that she _never_ gave something for nothing, almost asked why she was bothering to play this long. But then, quiet as a wing beat, he had the thought—what if…what if she was just there for him? What if there had been no trick, what if…what if…

He lifted his chin, heart beating a little faster, thrilled and terrified and almost angry because he knew how much it would hurt if he was wrong, but he was right…if he was enough for her…

Jonathan settled beside Grace. He couldn't tell if she saw the doubt in his face, couldn't bring himself to look.

She rolled over and kept drawing patterns on his skin. He closed his eyes as she wound her way along his collarbone.

This was what he wanted, what he had fought for from the beginning, but he had _never_ thought it would taste so sweet.

* * *

_AN do you ever get the impression that jonathan and grace both have committment issues, but of vastly different sorts?_


End file.
